


Metal on the Edge of a Knife

by parenthetical



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, M/M, Weapons, batoutofkansas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-15
Updated: 2007-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parenthetical/pseuds/parenthetical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now our bodies are oh so close and tight/It never felt so good, it never felt so right/And we're glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metal on the Edge of a Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the batoutofkansas challenge on LJ.

_And now our bodies are oh so close and tight  
It never felt so good, it never felt so right  
And we're glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife_

_ **Know your weapon** _

__His father's words rang in Dean's ears as he examined the explosives. Damn, but at times like this he really missed Caleb. Harry was fairly new in the business, and while his reputation was decent, the reality wasn't quite good enough for Dean's liking. If their lives were going to be depending on this dynamite, Dean wanted to be damn sure it had been stored properly. As it was, this batch looked like it might have started to sweat. With Caleb, Dean would have known exactly how far he could trust his word that it was okay. He didn't know Harry or his merch, not well enough to risk using this shit when it looked likely to blow both him and Sam to kingdom come. So the question was, was Harry just incompetent, or was he holding out on them?

"How's it look?" Sam asked from the doorway.

"Hmm," Dean said non-committally.

They knew each other far too well for Sam not to pick up on the undertone, however. He moved forward to see for himself, looking over Dean's shoulder, pressing warm against his back.

Harry shifted uneasily. "It's good stuff. Not easy to get hold of these days -"

"The good stuff _is_ hard to get hold of," Dean agreed lightly. "But let's face it, Harry, this just ain't it. I thought you dealt in quality shit, but clearly we've been misinformed. C'mon, Sam, let's go."

"Hey -" Harry started.

"You're right," Sam agreed, falling immediately into his role. "We're wasting our time here."

"Now look, guys, don't be hasty -" Harry said, laughing nervously.

"Not being hasty," Dean said, the cheeriness of his voice razor-sharp. "If that's the best you've got, there's no point in us hanging around watching it sweat some more, simple as that."

"But -"

"Maybe we are being a bit hasty, Dean," Sam said, overriding Harry's protest. "He might have _some_ stuff that's been stored properly."

"Oh, I -"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean demanded. "We asked for the good stuff, Sam, and _that's_ what he offered us. If he calls that good, I say we go hit up Tom. I know he said he has nothing better than half-decent at the moment, but even that..."

"C'mon, guys, let's -"

"Yeah, I know what Tom said," Sam agreed. "And if Harry really has _nothing_ better, then I guess we'll just have to make the trip. But I'd rather not spend the next seven hours on the road if there's any chance Harry might have something. Especially when people's lives are in danger, Dean."

"Really, I'm sure I -"

"It'll be _our _lives in danger if we try using that shit, Sam!" Dean argued. "You're right, we're running outta time - all the more reason not to waste it here."

"Please, if you'd just -"

"Harry, is there any chance you might have some better quality dynamite around here?" Sam enquired, suddenly turning his full attention on the dealer.

"I - well -" Harry stammered, visibly unnerved by the weight of their combined stares.

Dean scoffed and turned on his heel. "C'mon, Sam, we're outta here."

"No, wait!" Harry exclaimed, clearly trying to pull himself together. "I - well, now you come to mention it, there is one other batch that... a customer asked me to set it aside, but... well, for you boys, now. For you boys, I'd be prepared to make an exception."

Sam touched Dean's arm briefly. "We should at least take a look, Dean."

Dean heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Whatever. Let's get this over with so we can hit the road."

He only just managed to stop his lips from twitching up as he followed Sam back inside.

Harry hovered nervously as they inspected the new batch of dynamite. Dean took his time examining it, and not to make Harry sweat - okay, not _just_ to make Harry sweat. But the bottom line was: if you didn't know your weapon, you were already as good as dead.

Finally satisfied, he glanced across at Sam, who nodded imperceptibly.

"Okay," Dean said grudgingly. "You're right, Sam, we don't really have time to drive all the way out to see Tom. I guess this shit will have to do."

Harry's relief was palpable. "Great! I'm sure we can come to a real good deal."

"Yes," Sam said. Dean suspected it would take someone who knew Sam as well as he did to hear the amusement in his voice. "I'm sure we can."

Out in the car ten minutes later, Sam asked, "D'you really know a Tom who deals in explosives?"

Dean grinned and adjusted the rear-view mirror. "Nah. But since we were already talking to a dick..."

Sam snorted in amusement. "I knew it."

The engine roared into life as the Impala set off down the dusty road.

~*~

_ **Always look after your weapon** _

__"What d'you think?" Sam asked, opening the weapons compartment. "Other than the dynamite. Shotguns, obviously - pistols too?"

Dean considered. "Yeah, probably. I'm not sure rock salt is gonna be enough for this bastard. Silver bullets can't hurt." He passed Sam two shotguns and grabbed the pistols himself. "And maybe a knife or two - iron."

Sam selected a pair of knives and Dean lifted the box of cleaning supplies.

Inside the motel room, door locked and curtains drawn, Dean settled down at the head of the bed and spread the weapons out in front of him. Sam sat cross-legged at the other end, and together they began to check everything over.

They needed to get things set up by nightfall, which meant they had an hour, tops, before they had to leave. Enough time to do a quick check-over, make sure everything was in good shape before their lives depended on it. All their weapons were well cared for, but Dean figured it was worth taking the time to be certain: _Look after your weapons and they'll look after you_ was a lesson he'd learned young.

Sam started sharpening the knives while Dean checked over the first shotgun, inspecting it carefully for any problems and cleaning it with quick, efficient movements. The familiar rhythm of the ritual lulled him into his usual near-trance, and he only looked up when Sam got to his feet.

"Knives are done," Sam said. "I'm gonna run out and find us some food, okay?"

Now that Sam mentioned it, lunch had been a long time ago. "Sure," Dean agreed, then pointed the bore brush at him warningly. "But I don't want any of your rabbit-food crap."

Sam shook his head mournfully. "Your vitamin phobia is the reason you wound up such a runt, man."

He was out the door, laughter trailing behind him, before Dean could find anything non-lethal to throw at him.

Dean glared after him for a moment, then set back to work. He finished up with the remaining guns fairly quickly, then checked over the knives Sam had been sharpening. It wasn't that he didn't trust his brother's work, but Sam had never _enjoyed _weapons care the way Dean did. It was a chore for Sam - one he was good at, but a chore nonetheless, pretty much like research was for Dean. They tended to take up the slack for each other in those areas, one more way of watching each other's backs.

No real need, this time, though: the knives had already been in good condition, and Sam had only needed to sharpen them slightly. He'd done a good job, Dean thought with a small flare of pride.

Not that that would save him if he brought Dean back something green instead of real food.

Sam returned while he was packing the cleaning materials back into the box. This time, Dean made damn sure he had an oily rag close at hand.

"Hey," Sam said, setting down the bags he was carrying. "You done?"

"All set," Dean replied, eyes narrowed on the bags. "What did you get?"

"Oh, all kinds of stuff." Sam grinned and started fishing through the first bag. "Salad, of course, and -"

Dean groaned and threw the rag at him.

Sam caught it deftly before it could hit his face and looked up, blinking innocently. "Dude, if you wanted my salad that much, you only had to say. I don't mind eating your fries, you know."

Dean sagged in relief as Sam passed him a burger and fries. "Bitch," he said, for the form of things, and dug in while Sam demolished his own food.

 

They ate quickly, one eye on the clock. They had preparations to make before it was fully dark, and Dean didn't like being rushed with dynamite in the equation. As soon as he was finished eating, he strapped on his knife, grabbed his jacket and guns, and headed for the door.

Sam's hand encircled his arm and Dean stopped short, turning to find his brother unexpectedly close. Before Dean could ask what was up, Sam's mouth descended on his, soft but thorough.

Dean hummed in appreciation, allowing Sam to crowd him against the wall. He reached up and tangled his free hand in Sam's hair, wrapping his other arm around his brother so that the shotgun was pressed right across the breadth of Sam's back, holding him close.

They didn't really have time for this, but Dean took the time anyway. Sam needed it. Maybe they both did.

After a long moment, Sam drew back far enough to look at him. Dean opened eyes he hadn't noticed had slipped shut, and met Sam's gaze head-on.

For a second he thought Sam was going to say something sickeningly girly, but his brother just looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

"Okay," Dean said, and let his hands fall back to his sides, allowing Sam to take a step back. "Let's do this."

~*~

_ **Anything can be a weapon** _

__Dean checked the dynamite one last time, then moved back to let Sam look at it too. They tried not to take chances with explosives, particularly when the explosives had come from a dealer they'd never worked with before. And _particularly_ when the explosives were set up in a house where they still had to spend a few hours. If the dynamite went off before they got out, they'd be in real trouble.

While Sam examined the dynamite, Dean started laying rock salt around the edge of the basement, leaving the doorways clear for now. They couldn't afford to salt the entrances until they'd trapped the bastard in here.

Fucking necromancers. Fucking _dead_ necromancers. Messing around with the dead was one thing Dean really couldn't stand.

He concentrated on the salt and refused to let the heavy, oppressive atmosphere in the dark basement get to him. Refused to think about the things the necromancer had done here, in life and in death. They were going to put a stop to it, and that was all there was to it.

The salt looked very pale against the bloodstained floor. Dean made sure the line was good and thick. Once they managed to lure the shade down here - the place it was tied to, the source of its power - he damn well didn't want it escaping before they blew the whole place to hell.

"Dynamite looks good," Sam said finally, straightening up. "Salt?"

Dean reached the end of the wall and stopped, looking around. "I'm done. All but the doorways."

Sam eyed the two empty doorframes, one on either side of the room. "I still think it would be safer to lay salt across one of them."

"Sure," Dean agreed lightly. "Right up until something goes wrong and we need to lead the bastard through the entrance we've sealed, at which point we'll be completely fucked. We've been over this, Sam."

"I know, I know." Sam sighed. "I just... I get it, okay. I just don't like it."

"You think I do?" Dean retorted. "You got a better plan, I'm all ears, believe me."

"Okay," Sam said. "Where's my share of the salt?"

Dean pointed, and Sam scooped the larger sack off the floor. "Right. Let's do this."

Upstairs, the house was marginally more appealing, if only because the dark atmosphere was more muted than in the basement. The place had lain empty since the necromancer's death a year ago, but most of his possessions were still there, as hardly anyone who'd visited the house had left it alive.

On the plus side, that meant Dean had his choice of things to burn to lure the bastard in.

He started off in the library, since it was handily located in the middle of the house and he knew no better way to piss off the crazed-magician type - even the _dead _crazed-magician type - than to burn their precious books.

His lighter was cheap and a ridiculous shade of green: he bought them in bulk, since most of them only got used once, thrown into graves. He wasn't attached to any one of them in particular, but a lighter always felt good in his hand, no matter how cheap, no matter the colour. Not all of his weapons had sharp blades or silver bullets.

He grabbed a book at random off the nearest shelf and flicked on the lighter. He stared at the glow of the flame for a moment, then held it to one corner, watching the pages blacken before the fire took hold and spread.

Around him, darkness was rushing in.

Dean looked around for the biggest book, something that screamed _Big Bad Book of Necromancy for Bastards_, and wasn't at all surprised to find one lying on a table all to itself, in pride of place. Well, fuck_ that_. It smouldered very prettily, Dean thought.

The air was filled with a hissing sound, and Dean grinned when he turned around and saw the darkness coalescing into a shadowy figure.

"Took you long enough," he taunted, raising his voice enough for Sam to hear him on the other side of the house. They'd salted all the walls earlier; this was Sam's cue to start lining the exits too, while Dean kept the bastard occupied. Sealing it inside the house was the first priority. "Getting slow in your old age? I guess death ain't all you thought it was cracked up to be, huh?"

It didn't speak, just came at him.

Dean dropped to the ground and rolled clear, but _damn_ the thing was fast, and he was barely back on his feet before it was on him again.

"Okay, so maybe age ain't slowing you down as much as I thought," Dean muttered. He drew his pistol and fired.

The hissing that provoked sounded alarmingly like a snarl, but the silver bullet appeared to have no other effect.

"Great," Dean muttered, and threw himself to the floor again.

He wasn't fast enough this time. The shade caught his shoulder, and Dean was taken aback by how... _solid_ it felt.

Solid enough to toss him right across the library and into a bookshelf.

"Son of a _bitch_," Dean gasped, finding himself face-down on the floor. He got his knees under him and surged back to his feet.

The shade was in the centre of the room, and though Dean couldn't see any eyes, it was definitely watching him.

Well. Never let it be said that Dean Winchester didn't like being the centre of attention. Particularly if that allowed Sammy - the real threat right now, the bullet the shade would hopefully never see coming - to get on with sealing up the house unnoticed.

"Bring it on, bitch," Dean said with a sudden grin, and threw the book directly at the dark figure.

He was taken aback when the book actually _struck_ it, as he'd been more or less expecting it to pass right through. But the shade seemed to be at least semi-corporeal at the moment. That kind of thing took a huge amount of power, but they'd known this bastard was powerful before they came.

Still, the good thing about it being semi-corporeal was that something large and solid might actually inflict as much damage as rock salt or silver bullets. That was good. Dean could be creative.

He kicked the nearest chair at it as hard as he could, sizing up his surroundings for other potential weapons. The table the book had been lying on looked old but solid, and he heaved it over and onto the shade.

Or tried to. Before it even reached the bastard, the table came flying back and smashed into him instead. It knocked him to the ground and pinned him there, unnaturally heavy.

Goddamn, but Dean hated things that were semi-corporeal _and_ had freaky powers. Worst of all worlds.

Darkness was creeping down around him, forcing the table down harder, smothering him. Dean struggled against it.

"Dean!"

Oh _hell_. "Keep going!" Dean tried to yell. It came out as more of a croak: the whole breathing thing was becoming a bit of an issue. He shoved up hard against the table again, but it was going nowhere.

Over the roaring in his ears, Dean thought he could vaguely hear chanting, and the pressure suddenly eased up. It still took a moment or two of gasping for breath, though, before he figured out what was going on.

"Damn it, Sam, I said stick to the goddamn plan!" he yelled, taking another couple of deep breaths. The unnatural weight that had been holding the table in place was gone, as was the shade. This was not good.

Well, okay, the breathing thing was good. But there was no way Sam's Sanskrit cleansing ritual was going to do more than piss the bastard off, which was why they'd discarded that idea to begin with.

Sam had stopped chanting, but hadn't replied to Dean's yell. Dean swore and fought his way out from under the table. "Sam!"

Ominous silence.

_Shit._

__He looked around wildly for a second, trying to pin down which direction his brother's voice had been coming from.

Then he heard it: a very faint, choked-off "_Dean _-"

Dean ran.

~*~

_ **Be prepared to lose your weapon** _

__He burst into the hallway to find the shade pinning Sam against the front door.

_Fuck_.

It only took Dean a split-second to consider his options: with Sam pinned like that, they were pretty limited. He pulled out his knife and drove it into the fucker as hard as he could.

It might be semi-corporeal, but it didn't appear to like iron any more than the average ghost did. It gave a screaming kind of hiss, then dropped Sam and rounded on Dean.

"Yeah, that's it, come pick on someone your own size, bitch," Dean said, trying to hold its attention while keeping half an eye on his brother, who was collapsed on the floor. "Sammy, you okay?"

Sam was coughing and trying to catch his breath, but he gave a thumbs-up, so Dean focused fully on the shade.

"Running away from me because of some crappy cleansing ritual? Pretty weak, I gotta say," Dean said, keeping his knife ready in case it lunged at him again. "I'm starting to think we were too worried about you."

Judging by that hissing sound, he was certainly succeeding in pissing it off. He had a real talent for that kind of thing, if he did say so himself.

To his left, still on the ground, Sam finished laying a salt line across the door and called out, "Dean! I'm done!"

Great. The house was sealed up and the necromancer was trapped there with them. Now they just had to finish it off.

"You up for this, Sam?" Dean asked, without taking his eyes off the dark figure. Luring it down to the basement and trapping it there would be dangerous if Sam was too beat up to handle it.

"Yeah," Sam said, though his voice still sounded a little ragged. But he got to his feet, and when Dean glanced across, his brother looked about as ready as he was likely to get. "Go for it, man."

"Here goes nothing," Dean muttered under his breath, and lunged towards the shade. At the last moment, he dodged right, slashing out with his knife.

The hissing definitely sounded pissed this time, and the shade came at him.

"Come get it, you fucker," Dean taunted it. "That all you got? That's it?"

He ran, leading it out of the room and down the closest set of stairs to the basement. He could hear the hissing as it came after him, faster than he would have liked, and the sound of Sam's footsteps following it.

For a moment, he worried it would catch up with him on the stairs, but he plunged into the basement before it could take him out.

The moment he made it through the door, though, he knew he was in trouble. It wasn't entirely unexpected. This was where the necromancer's power was anchored: it was why they needed to trap it down here and then destroy the whole place, why they'd decided on explosives instead of a fire. This was where the bastard was most powerful. Still, all Dean had to do was get out the far door and lay a salt line across it before the shade could follow him, while Sam sealed up the door he'd entered through.

It was a great plan in theory, but the moment the shade came into the basement, it expanded with a hissing flourish, and Dean only had time to swear "Son of a _bitch_" before it was on him.

He managed to get in one good swipe with his knife, forcing it back for a second, enough for him to see that Sam was sticking to the plan and laying the salt line at his end, though his eyes never left Dean.

"Sam, do it and get the hell out, or I will kick your ass!" Dean yelled, and refocused on the shade in time to slash at it again.

Then it threw him across the room and into the far wall, and the knife spun out of his hand and skittered across the floor.

Dean only had a moment to choose between trying to retrieve it or running for his door to lay the salt line. He hesitated for a split-second - Sam had given him that knife, years ago - then raced for the door, cursing under his breath.

_A weapon's just a tool to help keep you alive, _his father used to say. _The moment you put keeping it ahead of staying alive, it's lost its purpose_.

That was a lesson he'd struggled with, though: he'd never dealt too well with losing the things he loved. But he knew better than to look for the glint of the blade; he simply dashed for the door, pulling out his bag of rock salt as he ran.

"Sam, _go_!" he yelled, scattering the salt as fast as he could, and was relieved to see Sam obey, turning and disappearing back up the steps they'd come down, now that Dean was out of immediate danger.

Dean managed to get a thin line right across the doorway, enough - hopefully - to hold the shade off him while he shored it up a bit. He hoped it was strong enough, because the shade was... swelling. Expanding to fill the entire basement, darker than the darkness, with faint crackles of blue energy here and there which, okay, couldn't be a good sign.

Another crackle of blue. _Almost like electricity_, Dean thought, and then: _Dynamite. **Shit**_  
He turned and ran up the stairs behind him, and raced through the house, crashing towards the back door.

He was barely through it when the building exploded.

The shockwave lifted him off his feet, then slammed him into the ground. For a moment, Dean was too breathless and shocked to move, his ears ringing from the explosion. _Fuck_, it hadn't even occurred to him that the shade might be able to trigger the dynamite. He could have gotten them both -

_Sam_.

God. Sam had been heading out the front side of the house. Had he gotten out in time? Dean had barely made it, and he'd realised what was coming and run. If Sam had doubled back to check on him...

Dean pushed himself to his feet, feeling panic welling up inside him. He staggered forward, picking up speed as he went, barrelling around the side of the collapsing house.

"Sam!" he yelled, but he could barely even hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears, let alone any reply. "_Sammy_!"

He stumbled around the corner and ran right into his brother.

Dean gasped in relief and gripped Sam's arms, looking him up and down for injuries. He looked a little bashed and bruised, but nothing too serious. Unless Dean counted the expression in his eyes, the way his fingers dug into Dean's shoulders, suggesting that Sam had also a few moments of worry that Dean had still been inside when the dynamite went off.

"Hey," Dean said, and pulled his brother close. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and was grateful that his ears were ringing too much to hear whatever girly crap he was murmuring.

~*~

_ **Keep your weapon close** _

The drive back to the motel was interminable.

Dean focused on the road ahead, on his hands gripping the steering wheel. Sam was silent beside him, staring out of the side window, refusing to so much as glance in Dean's direction.

Dean didn't think it was the way his ears were ringing from the explosion that made the silence seem so loud.

He supposed he couldn't blame Sam for being mad at him for the way things had gone down. But even if it was his fault, he'd never enjoyed being on the receiving end of his brother's temper.

"Sam..." he ventured cautiously.

"Not here," Sam said tightly.

_Awesome_. Dean turned his attention back to the road, and tried to ignore the way the cut on his cheek was stinging.

The moment they drew up at the motel, Sam was out of the car and stalking towards their room. Dean sighed and followed. There was no point in giving Sam more time to get worked up. Better to just face the music and get it over with.

He was barely inside the door when Sam slammed him up against the wall. But instead of the punch Dean was half-expecting to follow, Sam's mouth slammed down on his.

_Oh_.

Well, that was a relief.

Dean parted his lips to Sam, letting him in to take what he needed.

"Thought you were mad at me," he mumbled, pulling back just far enough to mouth at the sharp line of Sam's jaw.

Sam hissed, leaning into Dean's touch. "Mad I couldn't just fuck you right there outside the house." His hands pushed at Dean's jacket until it fell to the floor. "Mad because I knew if I so much as _looked_ at you in the car, I'd jump you and then you'd be mad at _me _for wrecking your baby."

That sent a jolt right through him. "Jesus, Sammy." He wished Sam had jumped him: he was pretty sure he could have avoided wrecking the car. She'd dealt with being pulled off the road a bit abruptly once or twice in the past. But Sam was busily attacking the rest of Dean's clothes, and Dean decided to follow his brother's example and make up for lost time instead of mourning it.

God, it was good to feel Sammy's skin beneath his hands. Dean felt his heart rate pick up, and didn't even know himself whether it was arousal or the memory of those few minutes when...

"Always a bad sign when you're the one thinking too much," Sam murmured in his ear, swooping to nip at Dean's earlobe, dragging him back into the moment with a vengeance.

Dean shoved him, making his brother stumble back a step. Sam laughed, free and happy, and turned away towards the bed, one hand closed tightly around Dean's wrist, tugging him behind him.

Dean went willingly, eyes riveted to the lines of Sam's back, only to stutter to a halt in the middle of the room as the light shining through the window threw the bruise purpling Sam's right shoulder into stark relief. __

_Sam. God, Sammy._

Sam tugged at his wrist again and started to turn when he failed to move, but Dean caught his arm, holding him still, then stepped close to examine the bruise.

No permanent damage, this time, but Sam would be feeling that one tomorrow. Dean traced it lightly with his fingertips, assessing. Sam stood quietly, allowing it.

Slowly, Dean lowered his head and pressed his mouth to the bruise, aching for the days when there was nothing he couldn't heal by kissing Sam better. The hitch in Sam's breathing reassured him that, even if he couldn't heal this, he could still make things better.

He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses across the bruise. He took his time, lapping at it, feeling the muscles shift beneath his mouth, until Sam turned sharply, his eyes intent and bright, and caught Dean's face in his hands, tilting it up. Dean felt his eyes flutter closed in anticipation of the kiss, but instead his brother's mouth pressed against the cut on his cheek, then licked a long stripe up it. It _burned_, and Dean moaned, feeling it in every part of him.

Sam pulled back slowly, far enough to meet Dean's gaze, far enough for Dean to flush hot at the look in his eyes.

"Sammy," he choked out, voice vanished to a whisper, and Sam surged forward, bringing their mouths together.

Their kiss was deep and slow and thorough, and Dean gave himself up to it, to Sam. Let his eyes slide shut, let himself lean into Sam's warmth.

It was like this, sometimes. Intimate: even more so than when one of them was buried deep inside the other. Often - not always, but often - they were frantic for each other, hard and fast and dangerous. And Dean loved it, loved making Sam want him as much as Dean needed _him_.

But sometimes when they came together like this, bodies pressed close and tight, it was slow and intense, a weapon against the darkness.

Of all the weapons he'd ever had, he and Sammy together was the one Dean had the most faith in. The one that mattered.

Without breaking the kiss, Sam was tugging Dean to move with him again, and Dean followed blindly, allowing his brother to pull him down onto the bed. Their mouths parted as they fell, but Dean couldn't complain because Sam was sprawled out beneath him, alive and smiling and _there_. Dean rested one hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall, the beating of his heart. Sam let him, dragged him into another kiss, and Dean couldn't help the surge of satisfaction and desire that shot through him when he felt Sam's heartbeat pick up as they kissed.

He shifted to lie properly on top of his brother, gasping a little as Sam's erection brushed against his own. Sam moaned into his mouth, nipping at his lower lip.

"Fuck me," Dean whispered hoarsely against his lips, and smiled with savage pleasure at the shiver his words sent through Sam's body.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam groaned, running his hands down Dean's back to his ass, grinding them against each other.

Dean lowered his head to lick his way along Sam's collarbone. "Fuck me, Sammy," he murmured again, lips brushing Sam's skin.

He concentrated on lapping at the bruises blooming across Sam's throat, then gasped and looked up to meet his gaze as Sam carefully slid one long, slick finger inside of him.

Sometimes, Sam looking at him and seeing him, really seeing him, was almost terrifying in its intensity. Dean felt his body flush with it, even as he lowered his head to kiss Sam again.

Sam slid a second finger inside him, carefully opening him up, and Dean shuddered. _God, yes_.

"Now," he said, pulling back and shifting into a better position.

"Dean, you're not ready -" Sam protested.

"Plenty ready," Dean disagreed. Two wasn't enough, not really, but he didn't want to wait any longer. If he was going to be feeling the sting of cuts and bruises tomorrow, he wanted to feel _this_, too. He grabbed a condom off the dresser and rolled it down Sam's cock.

Sam scissored his fingers inside of him, and Dean had to take a deep breath and try to focus as he slicked up his brother's cock.

"_Now_," he said again. His brother looked like he was about to argue, but Dean pulled away and took hold of Sam's cock, slowly guiding himself down.

_Jesus_. He inhaled sharply and sank down further, hands on Sam's chest for balance. Sam let out a strangled sound and seized Dean's hips, gripping hard enough that Dean knew he'd be wearing those bruises the next day too.

He wasn't complaining.

"Dean," Sam said, gasping as Dean sank all the way down, his fingers still digging into Dean's hips.

Dean opened eyes he didn't remember closing, and couldn't help but grin at the sight of Sam spread out beneath him, flushed and breathless, heartbeat racing beneath his fingers. He braced himself against Sam's chest, and began to move.

Sam groaned and thrust up helplessly when Dean lowered himself again, and they slowly picked up a rhythm, melding together.

It didn't take long; it couldn't, not when they'd both been desperate since the explosion. Dean began moving faster, more wildly, losing his rhythm as he got closer. Sam sat up, forcing Dean to shift position slightly and give more control to his brother. Sam slid one hand into Dean's hair and tugged him into a kiss, while the other wrapped around Dean's cock.

Dean moaned desperately into Sam's mouth, losing his rhythm entirely, quaking. Sam thrust up into him hard and twisted his hand on his cock, and Dean was coming, shaking apart, collapsing forward against Sam's chest, his head slumping against Sam's shoulder.

"Dean," Sam choked out. "Fuck, _Dean_."

Dean sucked and bit at his neck, leaving a bruise of his own. Sam groaned, thrusting up once last time, and came, shuddering all over.

Sam collapsed backward onto the bed, pulling Dean down with him. They lay still for a long moment, and Dean listened to their breathing and thought about never moving again. Eventually the position grew too uncomfortable, though, and he shifted off of his brother with a wince. Sam got rid of the condom and cleaned them both up, then silently coaxed Dean into shifting closer again.

Dean pillowed his head on Sam's shoulder, enjoying the reassuring thump of Sam's heartbeat beneath the hand resting on Sam's chest. He slid his other hand beneath the pillow for a moment to check on the knife there, cool and sharp beneath his fingers.

"Sleep, Dean," Sam murmured, warm and sleepy and reassuring in Dean's arms. "We're good."

"Yeah," Dean said softly, and slid his hand back out from under the pillow and into Sam's hair. "We are."


End file.
